//------------------------------// // Fifty-Five // Story: The Moon Also Rises // by Nicroburst //------------------------------// And when he reappeared, weeks later, though I made no mention of it, he looked at me, and shook his head. I do not know how, or why. I do know that I was warned, then, as sternly as anything Luna could manage: to stay away. Fifty-Five THE COLD BIT DEEP. Jagged ice had taken over from the thick snow, providing firmer ground that continuously proved more treacherous, prone to skating out from underhoof at the slightest provocation. Twilight couldn’t stop herself from trembling, even under the weak blanket of warmth she’d woven around herself. “You’re sure,” Rainbow said, for the umpteenth time. “Yes,” Twilight said. “I’m sure.” “I’m trying, too,’ Rarity said. The glow surrounding her horn was barely visible, even in the growing black of night around them. “It’s as if there’s just . . . nothing here. Nothing to grab onto.” “Hrmgmnmm,” Rainbow said, pulling her wings tighter around herself. “It’s really interesting,” Twilight said. She ducked her chin into her chest, focusing her eyes on the ice beneath her hooves. “As if, connected to . . .” The magic’s draining away, Twilight. Of course it’s connected, anypony could see that. The question is, why? Coromancy is supposed to be internal—it draws power from within. Something is wrong. Not with me, at least I don’t think so. Then . . . what? “Maybe it’s not connected,” Rainbow said. Her voice just barely carried back to Twilight, a few feet behind. “Just our shitty luck.” Twilight felt the chuckle in her throat and grabbed it, drew on it for more warmth. Temporal? But magic’s been growing stronger—I could feel the Element of Magic pulsing, back in Equestria. Are we just too late? Past some invisible unknowable point of no return? Twilight shook her head. Then, spatial? It isn’t going north, there’s no difference in potency between Canterlot and the Empire. Vertical? Rainbow can’t fly, and her natural enhancements against the cold aren’t doing her any better. But, Cloudsdale? How high are we? She bit her lip. They’d been climbing for what felt like days. At first carried by magic, Twilight had carried them across miles of landscape, moving strictly within line-of-sight from the moment they’d left the Empire. They’d passed numbers of ponies, set up in convoys or small groups, trekking northwards, apparently all for curiosity’s sake. They’d found the mountain ranges, moved from peak to peak, taking breaks in small valleys and ravines where they could shelter from the weather. Eventually, Twilight had been forced to rest her horn, and with the three of them Rainbow couldn’t do more than scout ahead. Even then, she was staying low to the ground, moving in short bursts, and returning covered in sweat. At first, they’d waited for the sun to rise in vain. Eventually, they’d had to press on, Twilight and Rarity sharing the duty of lighting their way with the moon doing little to help. And all the while, she’d been reaching out, trying to feel for that magical beacon, that pulsing glimmer of potential that Celestia had described, eons ago. The urgency, the spur to action; that she felt, warring with the cold in her muscles and the frozen air in her lungs. But no Well. Maybe it’s just not meant for me? Should they have gone to Celestia, to Luna? Would they have been better equipped, here, more able to handle these conditions. Earth pony hardiness wasn’t something to be underestimated. Yet Celestia had been reduced to movement by hoof, too. They just had to keep moving. And if we find it? What then? She was utterly convinced that the Well was the only reasonable hope they had of resisting the coming Storm. Everything she’d seen—experienced—in Rainbow and in Rarity’s memories convinced her of that. Celestia had immersed herself in its power, brought it back with her, even carved the Elements from its remnants. Twilight couldn’t imagine the sort of magic that would consider the Elements of Harmony leftovers. Could she handle that? Could they? A sudden break in the wind let Twilight hear Rarity, whispering, timed with each exhale; “there, we’ll, get, there, we’ll.” She stumbled, the ice splintering, and caught herself, freezing in place. They were on a ridge high above the cloudline, with white blanketing everything as far as she could see. A fall here would be fatal, by injury if not by the actual collision. The line connecting her to her friends went taut. Rainbow turned her head, keeping each hoof perfectly still. “Twilight?” “I’m fine,” Twilight breathed. “Carefully, now, Rarity, watch your step.” They inched forward until the fault was feet behind them, hardly daring to think. Inexorably, however, Twilight’s thoughts returned to their circling. Equestria had need of the Princesses. Times past, Luna had been able to hold the country together while Celestia searched—they were united, and not just against a greater foe. Now, with the timing of the Veil’s fall . . . There was no social glue helping out. Typhus would sweep across them as if harvesting wheat, with each grain standing tall, but standing alone. Celestia could not abandon them now, and Twilight could not replace her—not in their eyes. On both counts, she had failed. Failed her mentor, in a very real sense her mother. Failed Rainbow, who had gone through so much to bring her this sliver of hope—and Rarity. Failed herself, her aspirations and sense of purpose. Her self-aggrandising surety. She put one hoof in front of the other, and slowly, time passed. *** She woke slowly, drifting into consciousness like squinting through a thick fog. Sound came first, seemingly drifting here and there as it moved around the room, scattered words, voices both raised and hushed. Then warmth, a hoof grasping her own, a trickle of clarity that made its way through her. Finally, light. Applejack blinked her eyes open. She was inside the Library, it’s rooms devastated by the magical aftermath. Books trashed, walls blackened and burned, it was, to her raw senses, a scene profligate in destruction. It had taken all of her, to sustain the Tree throughout, and somewhere, she had failed, her memories blacking out. Discord . . . unleashed, like nothing they’d seen before. Her earlier encounters with him seemed paltry, feeble, like he had been a child, playing with his food. This beast was adult, and incandescent in his long fury. She groaned a little, and felt the hoof grasping hers tighten. A face came into view. “Applejack?” a voice said. “You’re awake. Oh, thank Celestia. I- I was so worried.” “Fluttershy?” “It’s Vera, sweetie. Fluttershy’s sleeping. Celestia saved us.” “’Bloom,” Applejack said. Vera frowned. “‘Mac’s alright. Nopony’s seen Applebloom—or Sweetie Belle, or Scootaloo—since last night. D’you . . .?” “School,” Applejack said. “Put ‘em in, old school.” “I’ll make sure somepony checks, okay?” Vera said. “Discord—Applejack, we found you by them. By Celestia. He did something to you. You wouldn’t leave; we couldn’t carry you away.” It was the Tree, Applejack remembered. She had invested herself so in its survival, in that ruse of sentimentality. Had it worked? Except—she was tired, so tired. And still the Tree was there, in her mind, it’s pulsing body drawing more from her, more to replace the lifeblood draining away, the structural and spiritual damage dealt to it by Discord’s ravaging. Biting her lip, she withdrew, cut the link between herself and it. All at once she heard the Tree groaning, felt the limbs sag a little, the trunk begin to wither. Vera let out a small sound, craning her neck to look around. With a groan, Applejack rolled over, got her hooves underneath her. She immediately spotted Fluttershy, asleep beside her. “Oh, no, AJ, don’t . . .” Vera trailed off. Fluttershy was still tense, her muscles bunched together and face held in a perpetual snarl. Her wings were clamped against her side like vices, the flesh blackened and charred. Lacerations ran down her side, blood matting in her fur, and bits of gravel and chips of wood still clung to places she’d scraped. Applejack swallowed. “Tell me . . . what happened.” “I- I don’t really know,” Vera said. “We found Celestia guarding the two of you from Discord. They’re still out there. Just . . . standing still.” Applejack walked to the window, stretching her legs through the cramps, and opened the blinds. “What’s the time,” she asked, staring at the motionless figures of Celestia and Discord. They were close, eyes locked on each other, chests barely rising. Applejack didn’t know so much as she could feel the titanic struggle ongoing, the clash of wills entirely internal. Not, she reflected, her strong suit. “Eleven, or thereabouts,” Vera said. “The sun should have risen six hours ago.” *** Princess Cadence faced down the most tightly packed court she’d seen since her coronation, and bit her lip. The general chorus continued to throng with demands for information, for explanation. They wanted to know about her recent decisions, her emotional state—Shining Armour’s death was still fresh in their minds, and it seemed impossible not to connect that to her isolation; not unfairly. They wanted to know about the Crystal Heart, and Boundless, and what were Celestia and Luna doing here, in the middle of yet another death—another murder, now that news of Hornwall’s predicament was spreading. Most of all they wanted to know about the Veil, about the spell of morality woven over all of them—what it was and what it had been, and, perhaps most pressing of all, how long had it been there. Cadence waved forward an advisor, and bent her head down to whisper with him. “Princess?” “Above all, I need to calm the populace,” she began, thinking fast. “Ensure that the Guard are positioned to relay my words beyond this hall—to the edges of the Empire, if need be.” The advisor bowed. “I understand, Princess.” “Citizens of the Crystal Empire,” Cadence said, rising to the posture drilled into her over long, long years. She focused a trickle of magic on her voice, letting it carry her worry and resolve to her citizens. “I know you’re scared. What happened yesterday was a great tragedy, but it was also a great revelation. I ask only for your forbearance as we move forward, so that we may do so safely. There are still a great many questions regarding the events of the past month. I assure all of you, normalcy will return. Safe passage has been once again extended between Equestria and the Empire. We must be as one with our brothers and sisters in the south; yea, this event extends to their borders as well. I am engaged in talks with Princesses Celestia and Luna—what we know will be passed on to all of you. “We don’t yet know if today will be remembered as a triumph or a tragedy, but we do know that it will be remembered. I encourage all of you to embrace your newfound gifts: and to see them as gifts, for the future is in our hooves. “It is paramount, however, that we exercise caution and approach the coming days with safety in the front of our minds. For those with concerns, we will be establishing a Royal Consultancy Service available to all citizens, to provide support. For those with questions, we will be in constant communication. “I must emphasise the newness of our situation. We are in uncharted waters, my friends, and the continued calm you display as we learn to navigate is both necessary and appreciated.” Relaxing her stance, Cadence sat back. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but she could work with this narrative, adapt it as needed. A Guardspony approached, scroll in hoof. He cleared his throat as his fellow Guard cleared a path, and bowed low to her. “Princess,” he began. “Report from Southpeak.” Cadence frowned. Southpeak was the southern-most mountain in the Crystal Ranges—well north of the Empire, and just about outside the habitable range. She didn’t think there were even any farms that extended that far north. She unfurled the scroll, to find another few scraps of parchment fall from it. She reflexively caught them with telekinesis, only to glance up at a shout. The tableau froze in her mind. The Guard was sprinting forwards, head held high, jaw clenched tight. His colleagues leaping forward, reaching out. The knife gleaming in the crystalline light, Cadence’s magic compensating, here at the least, and for a few blocks across the city, for the absence of Celestia’s sun. The knife grazed her chest as another Guard tackled him, launching the both of them to the side. They went sprawling, knocking aside dozens of ponies clustered around the dais, all staring at them, shock and terror writ large. Cadence unfroze. “Citizens,” she boomed, standing tall. “Return to your homes. We will find normalcy again.” They were scattering before she’d finished standing up. Pandemonium, no longer in her control, spread through the crowd, and they cleared remarkably quickly. Cadence stalked towards the Acting Captain of her Guard, a mare named Thorn, ice masking a sudden trembling in her veins. “Captain,” she said. “I trust you’ll take appropriate steps?” “Yes, Princess,” Thorn replied, for once choosing to keep her mouth shut. “See to it, then,” Cadence said. “And deal with him.” She didn’t let herself relax until she reached her quarters, locking the door behind her. Quickly, barely allowing herself to stop moving at all, she found her desk and unfurled the scroll, and attached scraps. There were a few farming reports from nearby regions—generally a touch lower than she’d have liked. They’d have to do, though, Cadence suspected there would be no aid forthcoming from Equestria. The scraps, though . . . Seemed to have been penned in haste by Twilight, at a northern border town. Huh. He’d actually been on the level, at least somewhat. An opportunist? It didn’t really matter. Twilight talked of Typhus, the great Enemy, lurking south of Equestria. She’d listed a few notes of how He had been defeated in the past, prominently featuring a Well—something Cadence had never heard of. They were planning on venturing north, “as far as it takes,” to find it. Cadence glanced at the cot where Trixie lay, unconscious, got out her quill, and began to write. *** Daerev kept to himself, leaving the door to his quarters shut. He had no desire for the inevitable argument with Pinkie, much less the awkward discussion with Cadence he envisioned. He knew her about as well as he cared to, or at the least understood that she could not offer him any way to better understand his own conflicted mind. Maybe that was selfish. Dragons were good at brooding. He found he never really grew restless, or uncomfortable, from remaining in the same pose for hours on end. He curled himself up, wings resting lightly against his torso, tail wrapped around his body, chin lying atop a stack of pillows, and he stared out the window at the city below. The initial damage had mostly been repaired: the presence of a Princess and Guard sworn to her service provided a tremendous amount of stability. Since then the city had stayed quiet, almost suffocatingly so. Patrols moved through the streets hourly, vendors sold goods through half-shut windows, necessities were parcelled out and carefully monitored. Mistrust reigned. Did that parallel to himself? Was this his personal dilemma writ large? An imposition of freedom did strange things, after all. He had resolved to defy his teacher. Agyrt had given him explicit instructions to bring this about; had had a claw in every pot. Those revelations hadn’t changed Daerev’s mind—that the ultimate gift was worth the price. He knew his vendetta against Boundless had tipped his scales somewhat, but he couldn’t quite care. No, what stung him was the sense of being used. It was hard, even, to justify to himself. He hadn’t been lied to, hadn’t been misled. At no point Agyrt even given him partial information. And yet he found his decisions laid out for him far in advance, as if he were but following another’s path. It prickled, sat uneasy. Now Twilight had run off somewhere, Celestia and Luna saw to Equestria and this threat, this Typhus, Cadence managed the Empire. There wasn’t anything for him to do, no further way he could think to contribute. How did a dragon fit in this new world? Could he simply return to his library? His whole life, he’d been able to protest his independence while remaining squarely on the path laid out for him. And now, now that there wasn’t any more time to coddle the children, he’d been left behind. Bitter. Twilight had taught him rhetoric, well enough at the least to catch the more egregious of his arguments. But self-awareness didn’t make the solution, the obvious, well-charted, suspect solution any easier. Brooding was comfortable, his flame crackled peacefully, he could stare at the cold outside, dozing, with something approaching contentment. Pinkie would not find it so comforting. He sighed, smoke roiling around his teeth. He really should say something to her, give her room to vent or provoke her into some egregious display. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since she’d disappeared into the Palace, mane and tail flat and drooping, despondent, lifeless. He supposed he could understand her, too, a mixture of impotence and horror, a mounting frustration and shock at the escalation of mistakes she could not stop nor correct. What would he do, in her position? Curl up and hide away? Try, yet again, to step in and lend improvement to the situation, create some semblance of return to the worldview stripped from her? He could see that, actually, could model Pinkie as that stubborn hero. Or, perhaps, she would leave, seek to go home, as much as she could. He could not imagine Ponyville would much match their memories anymore, but there was no requirement for rationality, here, nor any expectation of wisdom. Perhaps . . . And did he feel any responsibility? Speculation and self-pity aside, Daerev could acknowledge his own role here. He wasn’t without blame, without his small piece of the puzzle. Did that give him some claim to this aftermath? Some right to help shape the nascent world? The idea appealed, in its own way. If he was more sure of himself, it might have even seemed viable. A knock at his door. Daerev let his flame rumble in his throat, an implicit warning. It was ignored, and the door opened, a soldier of Cadence’s Guard standing there. “Letter for Miss Twilight,” the pony said, staring Daerev down. “The Princess directed it here.” Daerev flicked his tail in acknowledgement, and reached out a claw to accept the missive. Heavier than it looked. He opened the paper and plucked out a small fragment of crystal, gleaming in Cadence’s magic. Frowning, he turned it over, then glanced down at the letter itself. A minute later, he was hurrying down the hall, thoughts racing, and Fluttershy’s call for help clutched tightly in his fist. *** Typhus raced northwards across the desert. Lightning lashed the ground with great booming strikes ahead of his advance, the wind crept closer to a shrill shriek, sand slashed through the air every bit as dangerous as the boulders, torn masonry, and shredded tree trunks. Rain and hail poured down from the heavens, soaking into the ground and spreading deep into the Earth. He blanketed the entire horizon, as far as Luna could see. Roiling nuclei of deep black, argent lacing the thick clouds gathering into a series of colossal points, concentrating momentum and an ancient, ardent hate. Chaos embodied. She could see the wisdom in the Veil, now—and the trap in the Drac’s prophecy. What that serpent gained from unleashing this monster on the world, she would sort out later. Luna had hoped to avoid the mantle of Nightmare Moon. But the power it afforded her, through reserves built into its metal, through the myth it carried still, through the connection to the past both fond and tragic, was undeniable. With a thought, she felt it settle around her once more, cold iron spiking her with adrenaline. It felt right, or at least, not unfamiliar: a meeting between old friends, lapsing into all-but-forgotten patterns of speech, a jolt of familiarity. Luna, it spoke to her, it is time. Yes, she replied. He comes. We have faced this creature before, and sent it running before us. The armour seemed almost to sing its jubilation, a war cry saturated in triumph. Our sister is not with us today, Luna said. It is to her to placate the populace, to us to keep it safe. Fear not, it said. The moon also rises. And Luna could see the spell, engraved on her mind. She sipped the hatred embedded in her armour, at once regretting and appreciating the necessity that lead to its presence. Armour of hate enabled, she thought, where armour of love endured. With this, she could act. With this, she could do. Hate burned in her veins, spread through her limbs. It called to her, demanded motion, demanded power and the expression of power. All at once, she roared, a bestial sound bursting from her throat to challenge the face of the Storm bearing down upon her. She gave magic to her voice and to her horn, sent a vast outpouring into the spell she wove with her old partner. Argence graced her, moonlight enveloped her, cool and warm, austere and welcoming. It pooled in her joints, gave grain to her mane, sent her tail threading out hundreds of feet through the night sky. She reached up, connected again, and called OUT. The Moon answered. A tremendous shudder ran through the world, the air itself vibrating along with the ground. She could hear the breaking of waves hundreds—thousands—of miles distant. Feel the trembling mountains before and behind her. The fabric of the world lurched, butter beneath her hooves, and she laughed. Laughed her scorn, her hatred, her unending undying defiance. Laughed at the temerity of this thing, that it could challenge her, Luna, Princess and Goddess, Patroness of the Moon and the Stars Eternal. He came and He struck at her with all his might and Luna laughed! She laughed her mirth, her throat closing, and opening, and closing, and opening, the sound changing. She laughed at his defiance and she laughed at her bent to the theatrical. She laughed, finally, because surrounded by Chaos itself, she found that in the end, she wanted to. But the moon supported her. Ethereal light reached her even through the tumult of Typhus’ rage, lifted her up, made her strong. She lashed out, connecting herself to the ground, to the sky. She found the thrust of his Chaotic advance, challenged it. A conflagration of argent and blue-white engulfed her. It could not touch her. Not here, in the seat of her power, with the moon suspended mere miles overhead. She gathered more hatred, found only mirth, and poured that into her magic, too, an ecstatic, desperate, stand. She could match Him in ferocity, perhaps, but not in endurance. Experience had shown her that much. And—as Luna returned more and more to her mind, recovering from the excesses of the power she was channelling through her, she realised she was not doing much more than slow Him. Around her position, the edges of Typhus curled inward. The Stormfront was not bound to a single position, as she was—and for all her power, she could not spread herself to cover all the border. She had no army, no Coromancers to support her, and to carry out her will. She would not budge, and He had slowed. Appleloosa might even have time to evacuate. We will not be beaten, Nightmare Moon whispered to her, distinct even over the thunderous detonations of Typhus’ assault. No, Luna thought. That’s what I’m afraid of. *** Applejack thought she really should be beside herself. She could recognise the symptoms, she’d had more than enough experience with the emotional fatigue that followed overuse of Coromantic talent. Still, she expected some pang of worry to follow her, some nagging tremble obsessing over the mystery of where her sister had got to. Nopony had seen Applebloom. She remembered leaving them in the school, and then . . . nothing. All three of them had disappeared from Ponyville completely. Instead she felt numb. A tired lack of reaction; her attention wandering away, her eyes drooping closed and limbs aching just a little with every movement. It was an active chore to force herself out of the Tree, to move through the darkened streets lit by makeshift torches and the dying embers of last night’s excesses, and one that got harder and harder to hold to. Even the vast shift that passed through the world, shook her to her hooves, and left the moon hanging huge and silver, miles across and as colossal in the sky as Canterlot  from the base of its mountain, did little more than startle her to a briefly-held trot. And there was more than Applebloom to pay attention to. She shook herself, yawning, and waving her torch through the air before her, its light illuminating little more than a few feet beyond the vague argence of the moon. It was enough. She was standing just beyond the outskirts of Ponyville, an orchard’s worth of grassy earth separating her from the nearest cottage. The land here was gentle, spreading outwards from the paved over plains of Ponyville to the verdant lowlands abutting the Lethe and the Everfree forest. Or—it should be. Instead, the Forest was here. Already crossing the vast majority of the distance between its ancient borders and the town, the tangled undergrowth and roots quested outwards, reaching and claiming so fast Applejack could see them move. Brush covered the ground, green wood springing up from nothingness and clawing for purchase, vines wrapping themselves up trunks as fast as the trunks could grow. It was an evil, sick thing, vegetation spurred to unnatural effort by something insidious, some explosion of energy forced upon them. Applejack waved her torch back and forth, leaning away. She didn’t want anything to do with this; she was even intermittently grateful for her numbness. This . . . this corruption could barely reach her in her exhaustion, the thought of what it might achieve were her nerves as raw and untempered as they might have been was sickening. Fluttershy was right, that much was clear. What it had to do with the events spiralling around her, though, completely escaped Applejack. She was no longer content to insist on her capacity to handle this: no longer willing to stake herself against problems bigger than her out of sheer bullheaded optimism. What she could do was delegate. Others knew the situation in the town better than her—others could care for Fluttershy, could look for Applebloom better than she could. Or was that just the siren call of her fatigue? She would not forgive herself for turning her back on her friends and family. Most especially not here. “Applejack?” Vera had followed her, citing worry. Applejack hadn’t tried particularly hard to brush her off, some token effort towards her pride was almost more than she could manage. And the mare had been helpful, keeping her awake, keeping her upright. She’d been a rioter, though Applejack couldn’t remember her, trying to find some outlet, some way to express the raging storm instilled within. The way she described it seemed almost clinical, events that had happened in another life, to another pony. And then she’d stumbled upon Celestia, and Discord, and in the shambling remains of Ponyville’s organisational structure, took it upon herself to see to Applejack. To take Fluttershy and tend to her injuries, to take that driving force to act and turn it in a direction totally new. She had been a painter, her Cutie-Mark a brush-stroke of red. “We need to evacuate,” Applejack slurred. She was swaying back and forth, almost hypnotised by the flame of her torch. The plant-life seemed to reach out towards it, branches mimicking the figure-eight trail of bright orange and yellow light. “What in Celestia’s name . . .” Vera said. Her coat was cold, pressing up against Applejack’s side. “It’s not going to stop,” Applejack said. “I can feel it underneath.” “Okay,” Vera said. “Alright, AJ. You’ve seen it now. Let’s go back, okay.” “Okay,” Applejack said. All her resistance was collapsing, she could feel the walls coming down and was powerless to halt them. “Luna.” “Celestia put out a statement just yesterday, remember?” Vera said. “Luna went south. Assisting with the recovery efforts.” “Need Luna,” Applejack said. She leaned on Vera more heavily, now, her torch held close to the ground. She blinked, languorous, and yawned. “Some . . . pony . . .” “Easy, AJ. Let’s get you to bed.” “Vera,” Applejack said. “Vera, tell them all to leave.” “Alright. Alright, AJ.” “Canterlot. Have to . . . Have to get to Canterlot.” “Because the Forest is coming. I’ve got it, AJ. Don’t you worry, okay? Just leave everything to me.” Applejack pressed further against Vera’s side, comforted by her acceptance of Applejack’s weight. It was a peculiar release, for Applejack, a deflating without resolution, a passing of responsibility. She did not want to give in. But her pride could no longer sustain her without sustenance, without hoarding her own importance. Applejack didn’t consider what might become of Celestia, didn’t think to ask Vera to round up the animals on the neighbouring farms or to scout out the borders of the Forest or to find some way of contacting Luna. She just let her eyes close, and drifted off.